


One Last Surprise

by Andersaur



Series: Saviour [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Child Abuse, Hospitals, John's dad is a really bad person, M/M, Maybe some feels of various kinds, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1414966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andersaur/pseuds/Andersaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, with a dead mother and an abusive father, doesn't have an easy childhood. Sherlock appoints himself as the knight in shining armour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on one of my favourite teenlock prompts, so you might recognise some of the story.

John pressed his ear to the crack next to his bedroom door. He didn’t bother trying the knob; he knew it’d be locked. That was what came with experience, he supposed. He no longer received any unpleasant surprises. There was a lot of unpleasant stuff on its own, to put it mildly, but it was bearable, because these days he always knew what was coming. His dad was finally running out of tricks. Sure, it meant that John was suffering more from the classics (his dad had to make up for his lack of creativity somehow, after all) but he didn’t care. Back in the day, the terror of not knowing what to say, or do, or how far it would go, had been the worst of all.

On Friday, during school, his teacher had called his dad. John hadn’t been there, hadn’t had any idea about it at all until he’d gotten home, been smacked over the head with a strong fist, and locked in his room.

“ _I’m worried about John_ ,”she’d have said – Miss Hart, his senior tutor. God, she was so kind to him. “ _He’s been struggling to concentrate this week. I’ve heard from his Chemistry teacher that he’s failed to hand in two pieces of coursework this week, which is just not like him._ ”

“ _Oh_ ,” he could imagine his dad saying. He could imagine the three deep creases in his pink forehead deepening, and he could see the thick knuckles on his dirty hands turn white. “ _Thank you. I’ll see to him_.”

He’d have hung up, then, John thought. His dad was awfully single-minded when he had a goal to pursue, and it made him rude. He wouldn’t have awaited a reply.

Sometimes, John had dreams about Miss Hart. He dreamt that she gave him a panic button that froze his dad in place so he could get out – and he dreamt that the button didn’t work. He dreamt that she sent him abroad for exchange trips that he wasn’t entitled to – and he dreamt that the host-father he got assigned to was just his own in different skin. Sometimes he dreamt that she took him home and he just lived under her bed forever. In those dreams, she got married and forgot him.

She was leaving after the school year, John recalled. Leaving to get married and move to France with her husband, who owned a boat and was also a French teacher. John had decided long ago that he didn’t like him. He often found himself thinking about Mr Hart (John’s tutor had never mentioned his name, so the nickname had stuck for him, no matter how inaccurate it was always going to be). Mostly, Mr Hart was where his mind wandered when he was suffering – to stupid Mr Hart and his selfishness and all of the rescues he was stealing from John by taking Miss Hart away.

To damn Mr Hart, who was the reason his door was locked all through Friday night until Saturday morning.

To bloody Mr Hart, for letting his dad hear the rustle of the biscuits he’d snuck up to his room on Saturday afternoon because he hadn’t eaten since Friday morning – and Mr Hart, who’d been sitting at home with Miss Hart while John had to throw up every last sopping crumb.

To fucking Mr Hart, right now, as his scarred shoulder ached from being pressed so hard against the door to listen to his dad and his sister eat their Sunday dinners, because he had to hear that she was okay.

And then, every night, as he gave up praying for help and collapsed into bed, to his mother.

Come Monday morning, John had collected his confiscated brick phone from the shelf by the door and all of his homework was safely packed in his bag – including the two pieces he’d failed to give in the week before. He barely made it to school through the haze of starvation-induced exhaustion, but he plodded on one step at a time until he could sink into his chair at the back of Miss Hart’s classroom and put his face in his arms on the desk. He thanked every God he could think of that nobody sat next to him during these registration periods to chatter mindlessly at his tired brain. Sherlock Holmes was watching him from across the room, but he always did that. John ignored the way the pale eyes seemed to prick his skin and kept his head down. Mostly, John found him quite funny in the real, amusing sense, but when he stared, he _stared._

“Everything okay, John?” Miss Hart asked as he lagged behind, the last one leaving the room. Aside from Sherlock. As usual. “You look a bit pale.”

John smiled tightly. “Had a late night, Miss,” he said, scratching his chin. “Not feeling well.”

She nodded, returning his smile, and let him go. He kept his eyes on the floors all day, scouring them for spare pennies and pounds. He didn’t bring money to school, but he could at least buy a chocolate bar if he found fifty pence.

Come Tuesday lunchtime, he still hadn’t consumed more than liquids. He’d had a constant headache for the last day and he could hardly move without getting light-headed, so he’d blown his friends off and headed to the library – and then woken up in the back of an ambulance.

“John?”

A paramedic appeared above him.

“John, can you hear me?”

He stared up at her, blinking hard. He couldn’t get his eyes to look.

“That’s it, eyes on me. Keep them open. Are you with me, John? John?”

He cringed against the shrill call of her voice and nodded. “Yeah,” he mumbled. He reached up and tried to push the oxygen mask away, and she plucked his weak hand back and set it next to him again.

“No, no, keep that on for me. Good lad. We’re taking you into hospital, you just fainted for a while. We’re worried about your head.”

He turned his head and took a look around. Yes, definitely an ambulance. There was a man sitting in the seat. Two men, really: one other paramedic and one teacher from school. He had no idea who the man was, but he’d seen him around a few times before. He swallowed and his chest started heaving as his mind wandered again – they were going to find out. His dad was going to kill him. He was going to get taken away. Everyone would _know._

“Calm down, John. Calm down. Deep breaths. You’re alright, hon. Hey, it’s alright.” She took his hand and held his mask in place, but her eyes were focused on something at the end of whatever piece of stone he seemed to be lying on. “Deep breaths. Easy. I know it’s a bit scary, but we’re going to help.”

Upon reflection, he had no idea how they’d dealt with him at all. He’d been panicking badly, not thinking or seeing clearly, but he knew he’d been awake. He remembered blurs of sound and colour and faces, but nothing clearly, that was all. He very distinctly remembered a plate of food being placed in front of him, and he downed it all in two minutes and then threw it back up all over the bed. An hour and a drink of water later, he had another, slower try at a different tray. This one stayed down, and his headache started to disappear.

He didn’t know where or when the teacher had gone. They said they’d tried to call his dad and he hadn’t answered – he wasn’t surprised, if they’d left a message. John told them he was probably busy at work.

At three o’clock that afternoon, a tall figure came to stand at the foot of his bed and, much to his surprise, it was Sherlock. John blinked at him.

“Hello,” he said, not bothering to sit up. “What are you doing here?”

“Checking,” Sherlock said, and those eyes slid all over John’s body again.

“You finished school?”

“No.”

John laughed. “Good.”

Sherlock looked confused. “I brought you something.”

“You what?” John really couldn’t believe this. Sherlock stared at him all the time, especially when he wasn’t feeling well, but this was the first time they’d ever really spoken. “Why?”

“Because you need it,” Sherlock insisted, and he reached into his black backpack and set a pack of custard creams on his bedside table.

John stared at the biscuits. He tried to laugh. “Well, everybody needs custard creams. Thanks.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “I know why you fainted.”

“I wasn’t well.”

“You hadn’t eaten.”

“Because I wasn’t well.” John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock sighed. “I know you’re not stupid, John. You know that I see things, and I can see things in you.”

“Piss off,” John said. He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. He shrugged. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Tell someone,” Sherlock said firmly.

“Tell who?” John looked at him with a challenge.

“Childline. NSPCC. The nurses.”

“Tell them what?”

“That you need help.”

“I don’t need help.” John pulled his smile on again. “Everything’s fine.”

Sherlock bristled. “Keep those,” he said pointing fiercely at John’s bedside. “I’ll see you tomorrow, if you’re feeling better.”

John’s dad came to pick him up at seven o’clock that evening, and he didn’t touch him or say a word to him. No surprise there, really. He got scared when John was hospitalised, he always did. He’d leave off for a day, a week, until he was sure that nobody had worked anything out, and then it would all start up again. John ate his biscuits and hid them behind his bedside table, his evening calm for the first time in months.

Every day from then on, he found a packet of crisps in his bag at lunchtime. Every day from then on, he smiled at Sherlock when he found him staring. Every day from then on, school felt less like a booby-trapped swamp he had to crawl through and more like a safeplace.

One day, months after his starvation incident (his dad had since only banned him from one meal a week, if ever), he came to school with the most obvious bruise he'd ever dared let anyone see. His whole cheek was pink from a smack that morning – he thought he did deserve that one a little bit for forgetting to lock up before everyone had gone to bed the night previous – and he was sporting a bit of a black eye. Sherlock appeared next to him in their registration period when John finally lifted his face from his arms.

"Shit," he snapped, jumping. "When did you get there?"

"What happened to your face?" Sherlock ignored the question and pressed his own.

"Scuffle with my sister," John said, grinning sheepishly.

Sherlock's eyes flickered down his arms and then back up. "No."

John blinked. "Yes?"

"No."

"Yes," John said through gritted teeth.

"No, John."

"Fucking yes, alright?" John turned his face away slightly, self-conscious. "Leave me alone."

"You're a terrible liar. Your hands don't have a single scuff on them. Try again." Sherlock watched him expectantly.

John looked at his knuckles and flexed his fingers. "I was... Mugged on the way home."

"Also wrong. You're not nearly battered enough."

John sighed. "Rugby."

"You don't play."

"Tripped over."

"And got a black eye?"

"I tell you what, I could get some very realistic scuffs on my knuckles right now." John glared at him.

"Tell someone," Sherlock said, not at all phased.

John glanced around, but everybody was talking amongst themselves and not paying them the least bit attention. "Tell them what?" John said, ready to deny everything again as soon as he had to.

"Go to Miss Hart and say 'I'm having a bad time at home and I need help'." Sherlock nodded towards the front of the room, where their tutor was writing in a folder. "Between your face and your words, it's not a hard connection."

"I don't need help," John said defensively, and the clean side of his face blushed pink to match the injured side. "I'm fine."

The bell rang. He didn't see Sherlock for the rest of the day, and the next morning he was back in his own seat at the other end of his row. The crisps transformed into sandwiches, and he was okay for a few weeks.

_Do you have any allergies? SH_

John opened one eye and rolled over, flailing around in the darkness for his phone. Then he rolled his eyes.

It's midnight. JW

_Yes. Well done. Do you have any allergies? SH_

I was asleep. JW

_You're seventeen years old and you go to sleep at midnight? SH_

I go to sleep at ten. JW

_Why? How? SH_

I just do. No, I don't have any allergies. Why? JW

_Checking. For tomorrow's. SH_

Thank you, Sherlock. For the food. You don't have to. JW

_I know. SH_

Don't tell anyone. JW

_Of course I won't. I'm just going to keep telling you to tell someone. SH_

Fine. JW

 

* * *

 

 

John lay on the floor, staring up at his ceiling, the room spinning and his head buzzing. It was dark out, and probably some sort of ridiculous hour in the morning, but who cared? It was the weekend. He ground a custard cream slowly between his teeth.

"When you goin' home?" he slurred, closing his eyes.

He heard Sherlock sigh. "Probably in the morning."

John hummed and rubbed his eyes. "Biscuit?"

"No," Sherlock said, turning his head to look at John. They'd cleaned him up since his dad had gone to bed but it was obvious he was still in pain and completely out of it. "Your shoulder okay?"

"Nnnnnyes," John decided. He grinned and chuckled quietly. "I don't know."

Sherlock frowned at him. "John?"

"Yep?"

"What happened to your shoulder?"

"Fell down the stairs, didn't I?" John said matter-of-factly.

"Of course you did." Sherlock stared at the fingerprints on John's wrist where his sleeve had ridden up. "But I don't mean today. I mean last year when you came in with a sling. It's still sore sometimes but it should have healed months ago. Why?"

John sighed and scratched his chin. He put his hand back to the biscuits on his chest and popped it into his mouth. "Dislocated my shoulder. Ages ago."

"And?" Sherlock prompted, turning onto his side to face John.

John shrugged his good shoulder. "And it hurts sometimes."

Sherlock stared at him. It was obvious that John couldn't think very well right now – perhaps he needed some guidance. "Did you go to hospital?"

John made a face and shook his head. "Didn't need to. He said it'd go back on its own."

"And did it?"

"Dunno. He got a doctor to come here. Didn't look like a doctor to me, but... Mm, what do I know, huh? So he gets this doctor home with him one day and they're both a bit drunk and they..." He put his hands in the air and made a motion like pulling two magnets apart. "Plop. Done. Gone back in."

Sherlock suspected that he'd been a man from God knew where with some vague first aid training and a love of medical dramas. "Oh. Good."

John hummed. "What about you?"

Sherlock smiled slightly. "My shoulder is fine, thank you."

"Okay," John sighed. "Good."

They laid together in silence for a while, Sherlock listening for John's father and John falling asleep. It was so easy, John thought, being friends with Sherlock. He could just... Just _talk_ to him, and he was so smart. He had to wonder why they hadn't been doing this their whole lives.

"You should tell someone," Sherlock suggested again, just as he was about to fall asleep.

John hummed and then grunted. "Don't need anyone."

Sherlock shuffled closer to John. He put his hand on the hipbone closest to him and held firm, but not hard. "Everyone needs someone," he insisted.

"You don't need anyone," John said accusingly.

"I need you." Sherlock watched him closely. "And you need to get help."

John shook his head and whined gently, but Sherlock could feel his guard cracking. His eyes were open and they were beginning to shine.

“They’ll put you somewhere safe,” Sherlock continued quietly, his hand snaking across John’s waist until he was half-hugging him, because yes, he really looked close to tears now. “You’ll have people to give you enough food, and clean clothes, and hugs all the time.”

John sniffed sharply. A tear rolled from the corner of his open eye down to his temple, and Sherlock wiped it away with his sleeve. “I don’ wanna hug,” he whispered, sniffling again.

“Don’t be silly,” Sherlock scolded softly, rooting through his pockets until he could press a tissue into John’s uncoordinated hand. “You’re going to get lots of hugs, and then you’ll wonder why you ever thought you could live without them.”

“I got hugs,” John protested, covering his face with his hands.

“When?”

He was quiet for a few seconds. The only reason Sherlock didn’t make an I-told-you-so comment was because he could see that John had an answer. He waited.

“My mum.” John sniffed a few more times, soaked the tissue with his tears. “She hugs me. Hugged me. Sometimes hugs me still.”

“I didn’t know you had a mum.” Sherlock frowned. “Where is she?”

John wept in silence for a few more minutes. “I killed her.”

Oh. “What?”

“I killed her,” John sobbed, and Sherlock shushed him quietly. “Years ago. Way back.”

“How?” Sherlock pressed.

“W-we was in the car,” John started. Sherlock corrected him. He sniffed. “We _were_ in the car, yeah, that. And I… I wanted on a CD but I couldn’t find it. And we were stopped in traffic and she leaned over to find it for me in the… ‘partment… the, um…”

“Glove compartment.”

“Yeah, the compartment, and there was a coach.” John trailed off, face scrunching up again. He cried a bit more. “It came in s-sideways. To her…” He sobbed and rubbed his eyes hard. “To her side. And I never saw her again.”

Sherlock stared at John, his mouth open. He let him cry for a few minutes, handing him another tissue. “John,” he said eventually. “That’s not your fault.”

John shook his head. “No, it is. I know it is. Thank you.”

“Who told you that? Did your father tell you that?” Sherlock’s hands clenched into fists.

“If she’d been looking she could have driven away.” John stared at him, then, no hands to cover his face. His eyes were pink and shiny and his face was blotched with red. His lips wobbled with the sobs he was trying to hold in. “That’s why he does it, why he hates me. Because he loved her so much. And I took her because I was stupid.”

Sherlock shook his head and wrapped his arms around John’s body, pulling him closer on the floor and hugging him. He didn’t say a word, not yet, just stayed curled around John, hugging his head to his chest.

“It’s alright,” he whispered after a while. He had to keep John quiet – his dad was just down the hall. “Sh, John, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

After a few more minutes John was silent again, much more contained, but Sherlock stayed squeezing him. He couldn’t let go.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” he murmured, stroking John’s hair. “I’m so sorry that all of this has happened to you, and I wish I could try and help, but anything I do needs your full cooperation. You deny a single thing and they can’t do anything.”

John shook his head again, his face still pressed against Sherlock’s chest. “I don’t want to, Sherlock.”

“You have to,” he said. “You have to.”

“No, I don’t wanna go away.” He started sniffling again. “I wanna stay with my dad.”

“I don’t understand. He’s hurting you, John.” Sherlock dropped his cheek to the top of John’s head. “Why do you want to stay here?”

“Because he’s my dad, and I love him.” John snuck a hand up Sherlock’s chest and wiped his eyes. “And I have a sister.”

“Who is older than you and leaving home next year. Be sensible. You can’t live like this any longer.”

“I can’t leave her,” John said firmly.

“Why not?” Sherlock shot back. There had to be a reason.

“Because he’ll start on her if I’m not here. He says it all the time. ‘Do this or she gets it, do that or I’ll pull her out of school.’ I need to stay here.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock breathed, his heart breaking. “She’s a year older than us. She doesn’t go to school anymore. She doesn’t even go to university.”

John shook his head. “Same rules apply. If I’m not here, he’ll start on her. I need to keep her safe. She’s my sister, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed. He stopped trying. The serious conversation seemed to have sobered John’s consciousness from his concussion, for which he was mostly thankful. Talking to a John with the mental capacity of a six-year-old had felt like repeatedly slamming his head against a brick wall.

“Besides,” John said quietly, “we’re going to university next year. I’m getting out. It just takes patience.”

“How long have you been telling yourself that for?”

John didn’t reply to that. “Leave me alone,” he said instead.

Sherlock did.

He left Just before sunrise, when John had been asleep for an hour. He’d have woken him and checked on him, but he’d seemed completely sane again before he’d gone to sleep, so he assumed he was alright. He left him a note apologising for not managing to move him into his bed, left it in his trouser pocket so his father wouldn’t find it, and then carefully let himself out of the front door.

They didn’t talk about it, not for a few weeks. John carefully skirted every vague question Sherlock hinted at, and Sherlock didn’t want to upset John and alienate the only close friend he’d ever had – he’d started spending all of his breaks with Sherlock, if he could find him. Sherlock had told him he should stay with his friends, but he argued every time. They lived in a sort of imbalanced equilibrium, happy to never mention anything to each other, but things came to a head one day a few weeks later, as they always tended to. This was what Sherlock had been waiting for.

_I need the answers for the Chemistry paper. Right now. JW_

Sherlock frowned down at his phone, his eyes narrowed.

Gavin has them. Why? SH

_Shit. Do you remember any of the answers? JW_

The only two I remember are equations and working out that wouldn’t fit into a text message. SH

Is everything alright? SH

_Yeah. Yeah, fine, just don’t worry. JW_

John, what’s happening? SH

_My dad’s doing a homework check. I told him I’d done it all and I haven’t. That’s it. JW_

Hide the paper. SH

_Too late. See you tomorrow. JW_

Sherlock left his house immediately, a pen, pencil, and ruler in his coat pocket. He got the bus to John’s, fingers clenched around his phone the whole way there, but it didn’t go off once. He hoped it was because John didn’t need him and not because he couldn’t get to his phone. When he arrived he made a quick decision to go in through the window again instead of knocking on the front door, and he climbed over the gate and up the drainpipes until he was propped outside John’s window. He peeked over the windowsill to get a look in through the blinds, and it was just John, no burly father in sight. Just John, lying face-down on the floor with his hair blood-soaked and his hand bent the wrong way.

Sherlock got more stable footing and pulled his phone out immediately.

“Emergency – which service?”

“Police,” Sherlock hissed, his heart hammering in his chest. “Police, and an ambulance. Both. My friend, he’s been attacked, he’s unconscious. There’s blood.”

“Okay, sir, I’m connecting you now.”

The call was passed on. Sherlock waited.

“This is the police, what’s your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“And the number you’re calling from?”

“My mobile number,” Sherlock snapped, and he reeled the man off the digits.

“Alright, thank you, now tell me what’s happened.”

“My friend’s been attacked. He’s definitely unconscious but I can’t get in to see him.”

“Okay, and where are you, sir?”

Sherlock gave him the address. “He’s in his room. The back room.”

“And you can’t get in at all?”

“I’m hanging out of the window, I was just checking on him—” Sherlock sighed. He couldn’t get his thoughts straight. “It was his dad,” he clarified. And then, in the hopes that he could give them some sort of reason to let him stay closer to John, he continued. “He’s my boyfriend and his dad has attacked him. He stopped answering my texts and I wanted to make sure he was okay. I can’t get in.” _Not while I’m on the phone to you,_ he thought bitterly.

“Right, there’s a unit on their way. How old is the victim?”

“Seventeen.”

“And you?”

“The same.”

“And what’s his name?”

“John Watson.” Sherlock pressed his cheek to the bricks.

“Alright. Can you describe the scene to me?”

He swallowed. The more he looked, the worse it seemed to get. “I, um, I mean… I don’t know. Yeah. There’s blood. He’s bleeding, from his head. His hand looks… something’s broken.” He swallowed again. “Um.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know. He’s just in his room. He’s not moving.”

“Can you see him breathing at all?”

“Um… hold on, I need to see.”

“Yep, go on. Just have a check for me.”

Sherlock’s breath fogged the glass as he peeked over the sill again, and he stayed until he could see John’s back moving minutely. “Yeah,” he said, the relief obvious. “Yes, he’s breathing.”

“And is the offender in the house now?”

“I don’t know. I think so. Probably, but I don’t know.”

“Okay, thank you. There’s a police car coming to you now. Once the scene is secure, an ambulance will arrive to see to you. Hang in there.”

The call cut off. Sherlock whimpered and put his phone in his pocket before working the window open.

“John?” he called desperately, crawling through and then over to him. “John, can you hear me?” He carefully lifted John’s wounded arm and rolled him over, lifting his bloodied head to cradle it in his lap. He tapped his cheek a few times. “It’s Sherlock. Please wake up. John.”

John stirred slightly. He blinked a few times until his eyes would open, and then he stared up at the ceiling, still not ready to move.

Sherlock almost laughed. “Oh my God, John. Oh my God. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

John lifted his bad hand to his head, but Sherlock caught it gently by the forearm and held it to his stomach.

“No, no. Keep still, that’s it. Really still.”

“Mm…” John whimpered and his eyes went wide as he began to take in the various pains shooting through his body. “M’head.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, stroking a hand through his sticky hair. “But you’ll be okay soon. We’re going to get you some help.”

John closed his eyes and grunted. “M’head hurts.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. He wiped his eyes on his shoulder. “I should imagine it does. Stay calm.”

“Wh’t’s happ’ning?” he whined.

“Doctors are coming,” Sherlock answered quietly. He wiped a smear of blood from John’s face with the back of his hand. “There are some people coming to help you.”

“I don’t need ‘ny help,” John insisted, his weak voice implying quite the opposite.

Sherlock smiled down at him. “You’re right. You’re good on your own. But with people, you’re even better, so let’s just make sure, yeah?”

John grunted again.

“Good,” Sherlock said. He turned his ear towards the door as he heard some harsh knocks from downstairs. “There we go. Soon, they’ll be here soon. Just stay calm.”

John couldn’t seem to breathe properly. He was hurting and confused and he was so tired he could hardly move a muscle. He just kept his good hand fisted in Sherlock’s coat and waited, drifting in and out of consciousness.

The next thing he knew, a grey-haired policeman was hovering over him. “John?”

He jumped and his eyes widened. He squirmed uselessly, trying to get away, and then shrieked and curled up at the pain flaring in his middle.

“Wow, wow, easy!” The officer put out his hands and stepped back. “It’s alright. I’m DI Lestrade, I’m not gonna touch you. Stay calm.”

“Sh-shit,” John ground out, not quite fully in control of his mouth, as he tried to hide behind Sherlock. “God, p-please, no. Please. Please.”

“John,” Sherlock said softly, wrapping him up in his arms and holding him close. John winced. He loosened his hold slightly. “They’re just policemen. They’re going to help.”

“We’ve radioed in for an ambulance. Just need to make sure you’re alright,” the officer said, smiling calmly at both of them. He looked at Sherlock. “Who are you?”

“Sherlock,” he answered, eyes still on John. “I’m his boyfriend, Sherlock.”

“Were you with him when it happened?”

“No, he just… I was texting him.” He rested his cheek against John’s head and closed his eyes. “He just stopped replying. I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“How did you get in?” Lestrade frowned at him.

“I broke in. Came in the window. I saw he needed help, he was just lying there.” Sherlock squeezed John gently.

“I don’t wanna go,” John cried, his face pressed to Sherlock’s body as his chest started heaving.

“Hush, John,” Sherlock whispered. “Just breathe.” He turned back to the policeman. “When will the ambulance be here? He’s got injuries that need attendance.”

“A few minutes,” Lestrade assured them. He stood up and went to stand at the door.

“Where’s my dad?” John gasped. His voice was still muffled by Sherlock’s clothes. “My sister. Please.”

“Sh,” Sherlock said again, stroking his hair, where the blood was now dry. “Everything’s fine.”

“Where are they?” he insisted, trying to pull away. “Please don’t take him. Don’t do it. Please. Please, please, please.”

“John,” Sherlock said, taking his chin between his fingers and turning it to face him. “Look at me and take some deep breaths. You’ll be okay. It’s all going to be okay.”

“I can’t,” John wheezed, and he hung his head and started trying to tear his shirt away from his neck. “No, I can’t, I can’t breathe!”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what John was asking him to do. He let him go and gave him some space, all the while keeping his hand on his head and stroking his hair. “You’re okay, John,” he said firmly. Lestrade had come to sit with him and keep an eye on the proceedings. “It’s me, Sherlock. You’re with me. Take deep breaths.”

A medical crew walked in and dumped their bags. Sherlock got shoved away as they dealt with the situation, preparing syringes and saying things loudly right in John’s face and putting him on a stretcher.

“H-he’s in shock,” Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper. Nobody heard him. He tried to push through. “Please, don’t, he’s scared. He’s scared.”

“Just step back, please,” the assisting medic said, putting an arm in front of him and keeping him sitting back on his heels. “We’re looking after him.”

“No, I need to be with him. Please. I need to go with him. He needs me,” Sherlock insisted desperately, but they carried John, now suspiciously passive, down and into the ambulance on a stretcher. DI Lestrade pointed out that there were two seats in the back, and, with his permission, Sherlock climbed aboard and took John’s good hand.

All the way there, he was explaining the situation, getting increasingly agitated and nervous about John’s state of consciousness. His eyes were open and occasionally blinking, but he didn’t seem to be taking anything in.

“He’s broken his wrist,” they explained at his question, “and received a nasty blow to the head. Considering what’s happened, we suspect some other parts may not be in perfect working order, either, so we’ve given him a painkiller to last the journey. They’ll probably top it up at the hospital before they treat him, too. He’ll be okay.”

Sherlock was elbowed a lot in the next few minutes. He tried to follow the table John was on and keep close, but there was a set of double doors that he was prevented from gaining access to. DI Lestrade was allowed in, as he was John’s acting legal guardian for the time being, but Sherlock had to wait in a small plastic chair with a second officer. They called his brother to come, instead.

When Mycroft arrived, John had been behind the doors for an hour, and the officer minding his brother was bored out of his mind. He’d conducted a full interview, taken several pages of notes, and exhausted all of his questions. All he seemed to want was to go and write up his report before it all left his head, and Mycroft was all too happy to release him from his moral duty and step in to mind his brother.

Sherlock looked haggard. His hair was a mess, and there was blood all over him – though Mycroft could tell immediately that it wasn’t his. He frowned and slid into the warm chair that the officer had vacated.

“Broken wrist,” Sherlock began, staring down at his reddened hands. “Trauma to the head. I suspect a damaged ankle and several damaged ribs, too, from the way he was groaning as he was moved, but I’m no doctor.”

Mycroft nodded. He stared down at his own clean hands. “He’ll be alright.”

Sherlock didn’t move. He wasn’t so sure. “He was unconscious for a long time,” he muttered. “And…” He cleared his throat. “And he wouldn’t let them touch him until they’d jammed a painkiller into him. He couldn’t breathe.”

Sherlock felt arms around him, and Mycroft pulled him into a hug. A real hug, too.

“He’ll be okay,” he said confidently, burying his nose in Sherlock’s knotted curls. “He’s strong.”

“I should have done something sooner,” Sherlock said quietly. For once, he turned into Mycroft’s embrace instead of away from it, tucking his face into his chest and hiding in the enveloping warmth. “It should never have gotten this far.”

“John wouldn’t have let you, and he’d have been annoyed at you for trying. This way, the police have their evidence and John has the appropriate situation to bring some sense about.” Mycroft kissed his head softly.

Sherlock sighed and relaxed against his brother. “I suppose.”

They stayed in that embrace for a while before Mycroft kissed his head again and pulled away. He straightened his suit and sat back, and it looked for all the world like nothing had happened. “I’ll allow you tomorrow off school to keep him company, but after that you must obey the visiting hours along with your school hours.”

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you.”

It was another two hours before he was allowed in to see John. His brother followed at his heels, a supportive but not intrusive presence as he was lead to a private room and shown in. Mycroft waited outside.

“Hello,” John sang in greeting when he recognised Sherlock. He was beaming through his battered face and tired eyes. “Where you been?”

He’d been stripped of his clothes and put in a hospital gown. Sherlock could see a lumpy brace strapped to his left ankle under the thin sheets and a plaster cast wrapped onto his left wrist. He couldn’t see the head injury or any sign of John’s ribs, but he got the sense that John had been pumped full of something delicious.

“Hello, John,” he said, pulling up a chair. The nurse pointed out the call button and closed the door behind her. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m good,” John said, closing his eyes and nodding. “I’m _so_ good. Like, the goodest. Ever.”

Sherlock smiled. “Are you hurting at all?”

“No-pe,” John boasted, his lips popping to emphasise the ‘p’. He opened his eyes and grinned at Sherlock. “What you got on your clothe? Clothes. Clotheses. Your… you’re wearing. Red.” John nodded to himself. “Red.”

Sherlock blinked. “Pardon?”

“Red.”

A pause. “Oh.” Sherlock looked down at himself. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out what John had just decided, so he took a guess and answered the question he’d been asked. “You got blood on me back at your house. It’s fine, my mother can get rid of anything.”

“Oops.” John laughed. “Sorry. Did I do that?”

“Yes.”

“Oops. Are you sure?”

“Quite certain.” Sherlock nodded. “I definitely didn’t do it to myself.”

John chuckled warmly. “Yes, you didn’t. Sorry.”

Did that make sense? Sherlock was sure it didn’t. Still, he smiled and moved closer. “That’s okay. You’re sure you’re alright?”

“Yes,” John said firmly. He stared at the ceiling for a second.

“You’re tired,” Sherlock told him. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re tired,” John retaliated accusingly. Then, immediately, he closed his eyes, defeated. “Okay.”

Sherlock laughed softly. He wondered how long these effects would last, because he was supposing now that he could get used to them. “Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight.”


	2. A Reconciliation

Sherlock was awake, watching John, all night. He watched the readings on the screen from the peg on his finger, and he watched his wheezing chest, and he watched his arms, vowing to go out in search of another blanket at the first sign of goosebumps. Nothing happened until the next morning, when John woke up in pain so intense that it sent him roaring into a similar state of distress to the one he’d experienced the night before. He was starting to liken them to panic attacks, though he had no idea if that was what they were.

A nurse came in and pressed a small syringe into the capped IV line on the back of his hand, and John relaxed almost instantly. She stayed close and monitored his pulse on the screen as he calmed down, Sherlock holding his hand and taking him through it breath by breath. Then, pulled under by the morphine and not wanting to stay awake for his confusion, he went to sleep again. Sherlock continued to keep watch.

That evening, he woke up more properly.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, sitting forwards and getting his face close. “How are you feeling?”

John rubbed his eyes, confused when a cast hit him in the face. He looked around. “I…” He coughed, and then clutched his middle with a small cry of pain, and then threw up all down his front in quick succession.

Sherlock, with no idea how to act to remedy the situation, slammed the call button, and held John’s hands away to stop him from the pathetic attempts he was making to pick up his own vomit. A nurse took one look at the scene and immediately went for the locked cupboard at the other side of the little room.

“Everything alright?” he asked, fetching a few cardboard bowls and leaving them on the bedside table.

“He’s not feeling well,” Sherlock said, rubbing John’s palms with his thumbs.

“It’s probably just the morphine,” the nurse explained, “don’t worry. I’m sure it’ll wear off soon. Use those if you need them.” He nodded his head towards the bowls and brought over some clean blankets, gathering the dirty ones up before setting the clean ones at the end of the bed. “Here, mate, wipe your mouth.”

John took the wad of paper towels and wiped his mouth, his face the picture of confused heartbreak. Sherlock put his own hand over John’s and gave him a bit of assistance.

“It’s okay,” he said, lips close to his ear. “You’re in hospital. Your dad got a bit too rough, but it’s all going to be sorted now, okay?”

John nodded slowly, too ill to argue.

“Need to change his gown. Want to step out?” The nurse brought a clean one over and unfolded it.

“No. I’m his boyfriend. Seen it all before. Let me do it.” Sherlock held his hand out for the gown and the nurse deliberated for a moment.

“That alright, John? Would you rather he dress you?”

John nodded, not really fully understanding what any of it meant but in the habit of agreeing with things anyway.

The nurse handed the gown over and stepped out for a minute to dispose of the dirty blankets. Sherlock got to work untying the strings at the neck and lower back of the gown John had on, and soon he was pulling it away from John’s front and staring with wide eyes.

“Oh, John,” he gasped, feeling horrible for squeezing him in such a tight hug the night before. John’s skin was a murky palette of brown, purple, green, yellow, and red. There were scratches and bruises all over every inch of his skin that was covered with clothes, in various stages of healing, and they leaked underneath the white bandage wrapping his crushed rib cage. “Jesus Christ. I’m… so sorry.”

John didn’t answer. He stayed sitting there like a shy dog, letting Sherlock stare at him and pity him, only covering his crotch with his hands to keep himself at least partially hidden.

After a moment, Sherlock dropped the dirty gown on the floor and lifted John’s arms into a fresh one, tying both sets of strings before laying him back down again with many grunts and groans. The nurse reappeared and plucked the gown from the floor.

“Are you in any bad pain?” he asked, and John closed his eyes and shook his head. “Okay. Just call me if you are, or if you run out of bowls. I’ll ask someone to offer breakfast around in about half an hour.”

“We will. Thank you.”

The nurse nodded and stepped out. Sherlock turned to John. “Do you remember what happened?”

“No,” John croaked. He rubbed his eyes. “I remember we were texting. And there was… you were with me, I was… must have been the ambulance. That’s it.”

“It’s Monday morning. You’ve been in hospital overnight since Sunday evening. We were texting, you’re right, and I came around to see why you’d stopped replying and you were unconscious on your bedroom floor. I had to make a decision and I decided to call 999. I told them I’m your boyfriend so they’d let me stay with you.” Sherlock sounded firm, but he looked uncertain. He paused. “I was worried about you.”

John looked at him, really looked at him, this strange friend that he’d grown so close to in the last few months. Someone he’d gone from never looking at to hiding behind in emergencies. He was glad Sherlock was there; he didn’t think any of the rest of his friends would have had the guts to come with him. “What’s happened to my dad and my sister?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I have no idea. They won’t tell me anything, but I expect a police officer called DI Lestrade will be here soon to talk to you and answer your questions. Either him or a social services representative.”

“I’m too old for a care home,” John muttered.

“You’re not too old for a halfway house,” Sherlock reminded him.

John sighed. “What else do you think is going to happen?”

Sherlock hummed. “Well, they’re most definitely going to send a psychologist in and give you a psychological evaluation, and they’re going to want to make you eat something. After that… God knows. Maybe they’ll send you to be looked after by your sister.” He paused. “I have to go back to school tomorrow.”

“What?” John said. His reaction was immediate; he sounded breathless again. “Can I come? Am I coming back to school?”

“No, John.” Sherlock frowned. “You need to stay here so they can fix you and take care of you. I’ll bring you your work if you want.”

John shook his head firmly. He pulled at his collar, hot all over. “No. Don’t leave me. Please, please don’t leave me on my own.”

“John,” Sherlock said. He came to the bed and sat on the edge of it, taking John’s hands and holding them close. On autopilot, he kissed his knuckles. “Listen to me, you’re fine. You’re safe.”

John’s eyes were so wide and unblinking that they’d started watering, and he wiped them on his shoulders as his hands started shaking. “I… f-feels like I d-don’t… like I can’t…”

“Like you’re on your own,” Sherlock deduced slowly, “and you have nowhere. But that’s not true, John. You’re not on your own at all, because I’m right here, and there are people at all sides keeping you safe and sound and willing to talk to you for hours until you feel better. And you’ll always have a place with me.”

John sniffled for a few minutes. “Stay with me,” he whimpered.

Sherlock swallowed. “I will, for today. But I have to go to school tomorrow. Mycroft is taking me, I can’t get out of it. I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

“Stay just today, then,” John insisted, tugging on Sherlock’s hands. “For when the police come. And the psychologist. Sit with me.”

“Okay.”

But breakfast came first. Sherlock had a pastry, because he hadn’t slept in two days and he needed something to keep him going, and John had been given some plain toast and a glass of water to get him going. Then, both of them dying from boredom already, there was a knock on the door and two policemen let themselves in.

“John Watson,” the one Sherlock recognised as Lestrade said. “I’m Greg Lestrade, and this is Sally Donovan. We’re just here to talk to you a bit about what’s going to happen with you.” He glanced pointedly at Sherlock.

“He’s staying,” John said, and he looked at Sherlock. “Stay.”

Sherlock nodded and moved closer, taking John’s hand again. “I won’t say a word unless you want me to.”

For the most part, he stayed quiet. His statement had been taken the night before, so all he was there for was to translate when John was finding something difficult to say or ask a question he hadn’t thought of. Every time he spoke, the lady gave him a disgruntled look. He got the distinct feeling that she didn’t really want him to be there at all, but she could piss right off, because he wasn’t going anywhere.

John’s father was being kept in custody at Lestrade’s station until further notice, apparently. John rubbed his eyes, then, sniffing again.

“Where’s my sister?” was his first question.

“She’s a legal adult,” was the reluctant response. Lestrade glanced over to Donovan, but she looked away. He took a breath. “She wasn’t anywhere near the scene last night, John. We haven’t heard from her. If we had, we’d be letting both of you stay at home, but she’s not here to be your guardian so there’s nothing we can do but try and find a host family for you.”

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock gave him a confident smile. He’d twist it any way they could to get John to stay with him.

“What if I don’t want to press charges?” he asked eventually, looking between the officers. “I don’t want him to go to prison, just… cancel everything.”

DI Lestrade shook his head. “It’s a matter for the state now, John,” he said, glancing at Sherlock. “It’s been taken over. There’s nothing you can do but let us try and help you.”

“I want to talk to him,” John said, his voice getting tighter and more watery with every word. “Please. I’d like to talk to him.”

Lestrade shook his head again. “I can’t allow that. I’m sorry. It’s for the best.”

Sherlock stood up and hugged John’s head to his middle, letting him hide his face until he could gather himself again.

“Do you have any more questions?” Lestrade asked awkwardly. Sherlock shook his head. “Okay, then. If you have anything else you need, ring this number,” he put a small card on the table, “and ask for Greg Lestrade. Take care now, boys. I’ll be in touch.”

The door closed neatly behind them.

“I’m sorry for being such a pussy all the time,” John whined, pulling away from Sherlock and scrubbing his face with his hands. “I don’t know why I can’t just fucking _breathe_.”

“You’ve been through a traumatic experience and been suffering physical and emotional abuse for years. It’s understandable you’d be anxious,” Sherlock said, waving a hand. He sat back down.

“How long before the psychologist?” John asked, adjusting his blankets and sitting up a little more.

Sherlock shrugged. “I can go and find out.”

“Please.”

He nodded.

“After lunch,” Sherlock announced as he walked back in twenty minutes later. “We’ve got about two hours.”

And they dragged. Sherlock’s phone was dead and they had no TV. John was in no state to be walking down to the lounge, either. They sat and suffered, eventually wolfing down lunch before sitting and groaning a bit more. John needed a top-up of medication after they’d eaten, but he requested a smaller dose to keep his mind sharp and his food down. They obliged.

“John Watson,” the man said with a smile. John nodded and he let himself in. “I’m Adam. Resident child psychologist. Pleased to meet you. I should say, before we go any further, that this was meant to be a private consultation.” He pointed at Sherlock.

“No, Sherlock will be staying,” John said calmly, reaching out to take his hand. “I need him here.”

Adam nodded slowly. “Alright. But if you want him out at any point, say so. And you have to leave if I request so.”

“No,” John said firmly, holding the hand tighter.

“John,” Sherlock said, patting his hand and trying to loosen the grip. “If I leave, I’ll only stand outside. You’re going to be fine.”

“I want you to stay,” he said firmly, still staring at Adam. The man nodded.

“Alright, then. Well, I just wanted to talk to you first, actually. Find out what you’re thinking.” He pulled up a chair and sat down.

It was long, upsetting, and tiring. They talked for an hour about John’s situation (not in any specific detail, but about his life as a whole) and his schoolwork – which, in itself, had been a jungle.

_“Have you applied for university?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“What have you applied for? Where would you like to go?”_

_John sighed. “I tried for Bart’s. Wanted to do medicine.”_

_“Did you change your mind?”_

_John scoffed. “Well, I’m not really up to scratch in the brains department these days.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“I’ve missed a shitload of classes for years now, but this year… this year when you miss a single class you miss a lot. I’ve missed too much. I’m failing everything.”_

_“You never told me you were struggling.” Sherlock frowned. John shrugged. “Let me help you. I could be your tutor.”_

_John laughed. “It’s too late, Sherlock. It’s fine, really. Uni sounds too hard anyway. I’m going to join the army.”_

_“John, I know those are your father’s words. You’re one of the most intelligent people I know. Don’t do this.”_

_“Don’t. Please, just don’t.”_

_“John, you’ll get yourself killed.”_

_“No, I won’t. I’m going to be a soldier.”_

_“That’s what your dad wants, not what you want.”_

_“Shut up. I’ve changed my mind, alright? That’s what I want now.”_

_“John—_ ”

_“No. It’s what I want.”_

In the second hour the psychologist spent with them, he handed John a mental health questionnaire to fill in. “I’ve gone with the adult one,” he said, “so ignore any questions that don’t apply, like the workplace ones. Just imagine they’re talking about school. The kid one’s too simple for you. They need a teen one, really…”

John had only taken ten minutes to fill out the hundred questions, and he handed it back with a confident swish of his hand. Adam raised his eyebrows and glanced over the sheets.

He sighed. “John…”

“Yes?”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“I know.” John looked up at the ceiling, his jaw set. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I don’t think you’ve answered this truthfully.” He handed the papers back.

“What difference does it make? You’re still going to think the same things about me, whether or not you’ve got this crap.” John flicked the papers onto the floor.

Adam’s nostrils flared and he picked them up and put them back on the bed. “They’ll be important for the case against your dad in court,” he said quietly, pretending to leaf through his folder.

John froze. “Then keep that one.”

“Sorry?”

“Keep that test.”

“Look, John, I understand that you’re upset, frustrated, and confused, but you need to give me a real picture of how you’re feeling.” Adam handed him a red pen so he could go over the black choices with the correct answers.

“Don’t be obnoxious, John,” Sherlock said quietly. “That’s my job.”

John snorted. He sighed and picked them up again, keeping his knees up to hide his answers as he worked through.

_5\. I have had thoughts of suicide_

John ticked _NOT AT ALL._

_9\. I feel worried or fearful_

John hesitated. He ticked _MOST OF THE TIME._

_10\. I have attacks of anxiety or panic_

He sighed, scratched his eyebrow with the pen, and then owned up. _OFTEN._

It was a long and embarrassing process, and eventually, when he handed the form back a second time, the psychologist was a bit nicer. He took the sheets in, explained that if he ever wanted to talk, he should just call a nurse and ask for Adam, and then he promised that he’d have a look over the questionnaire and get back to him soon.

They were on their own again. John was feeling entirely helpless. Sherlock got up onto the bed next to him and they settled in for a nap, John’s small, broken frame wrapped protectively in his own.  
When John woke up the next day, Sherlock was gone and he felt like he’d been hit by a bus. He slammed the call button without even trying to roll onto his back, his entire chest in aching, splitting pain with every shallow breath he took. A minute later, a syringe of morphine was poked into his cannula and he relaxed. Breakfast came for him, and then some magazines, and then  he got sick of staring at his boring ceiling all the time. He took the card from his bedside table and went on an adventure to the canteen – and to a payphone.

“Can I speak to DI Lestrade, please?” John said quietly, hiding against a pillar in the food hall. No doubt the nurses would have a fit if they found him walking around on his almost-fractured ankle. “It’s John. John Watson.”

He was passed over almost immediately.

“John, this is Greg Lestrade. Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Yes, fine, all fine. I just… Look, I really need to speak to my dad.”

He heard Lestrade sigh on the other end. “I can’t let you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I believe it’s in the best interests of your recovery to have a complete separation from him,” Greg said clearly.

“Please,” John said. He could feel hot tears pricking his eyes and he sniffed hard. “Please, I really need to talk to him. I’ll just keep ringing if you don’t let me.”

Greg sighed again. He was quiet a for a minute. “I’m going to record the conversation and have someone listening. They’re going to cut you off if anything happens, alright?”

John almost collapsed with relief. “Yes, God, yes. Thank you. Thanks so much.”

“Yeah.”

He waited for a few seconds, hearing scratching and steps but no voices. Then, out of the blue, he heard someone pick up the phone. No voice came.

“Dad?” he breathed, his knuckles white around the phone. “It’s… it’s John.”

“I know,” his dad said. His voice was gruff and harsh, as usual. “What do you want?”

John sniffed and wiped his eyes. “I… dunno.” He sighed. “I dunno.”

“Are you crying?”

John paused. “No,” he decided, wiping his eyes. “I just… I wanted to say, you could plead guilty. I mean, they… they sometimes, you know, reduce the sentences. If you plead guilty. You wanna do that?”

“Why would you care? You’ve been wanting to get rid of me for ages. Your sister would have done it better than you.”

John winced. “Harry’s gone,” he said, “in case you’re wondering. They didn’t find her at the house that night, apparently, and she hasn’t been in touch. You heard from her?”

“No.”

“Oh.” John winced again and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I didn’t call them. I swear I didn’t.”

“Couldn’t have. You were on the floor, last I saw. You weren’t even man enough to stop me yourself. Stop crying, you’re snivelling all over the place.”

John’s heart sank. This had been a horrible idea. “Sorry,” he said automatically. “I’m gonna be a man, though. I’m gonna join the army for you.”

“I bet you couldn’t pass the physical,” Mr Watson said scathingly.

John looked down at his broken, beaten body. No, not like this, he wouldn’t. “I’ll start going to the gym,” he offered pathetically. “Or eating less?”

There was a frustrated huff down the line. “You can’t even think for yourself!” his father cried. “How am I supposed to believe you can bulk up and join the army when you can’t even _think_?”

John couldn’t even bring himself to reply to that, too afraid that he’d just end up crying even harder and getting dragged away by a nurse.

His father sighed. “Look, John.” His voice had gotten menacingly quiet. “You man up. You do what you want with your life. You get married, have kids, and treat ‘em better than you think I’ve treated you, but for the love of Christ, John, _do something._ Don’t just stand around crying. Do something.”

“You told me not to be a doctor!” John cried, pressing his face against the wall. He didn’t have the strength for this. He shouldn’t have called. “‘n anyway, I’m joining the army, I’m gonna be a soldier. That’s what you wanted. I don’t understand.”

“They need doctors in the army! Do what you want, John, if it’ll make you any less of a baby about it. Grow up!”

“So wh… what do I do? Where am I supposed to go? Why can’t you just tell me, because every answer I try to give is the wrong one, and I don’t want to keep trying anymore.” John put his face in his free hand.

There was a beat of silence. “Go to school,” Mr Watson began. “Then shape up and enlist. They need doctors in the army. If you’ve got your heart set on med school, then study up and go, but the structure of the army will be good for you. You need structure. You always have. You’re a better follower than a leader and there’s not a thing I can do to change that. Maybe your mother could’ve done a better job than I have, but she’s not here, so I did what I could.”

“You didn’t do anything for me,” John whimpered, and he rubbed his eye with his fist. He sighed. He really didn’t have the energy to go around in circles. “Look, I just… I have a question, then. If you’re helping me, if you want me to succeed. Why did you hurt me? What did I do, really?”

“You’re so bloody much like her,” his dad growled. “You always have been, and I’ve had to live with that every day from that day to this. She died and you didn’t.”

The words took John completely by surprise. He’d known what they would be, he always had, but he hadn’t expected his dad to still mean them with so much violence. He’d expected defeat, maybe, or exhaustion, but they were spoken with as much grief and anger as he’d had the first time John had felt his hands on his face.

“They’re letting me go in a few days,” John said quietly, his eyes glazing over. “I could… come and see you. You could do it. Just finish me off, right there.”

His father went quiet for a second. “You’re barking mad,” he muttered. “And there’s no way I’m going to prison for premeditated murder. Clever, but I’m not gonna do it.”

John snorted. He hadn’t even considered that. He sighed and wiped his eyes again. “Finally handing myself to you on a silver platter and you still don’t want me,” he mused. Then he tried to pull himself up straight and take a deep breath. “I need to go. I’m so sorry about… everything.” He felt his heart twist. Would he ever get to speak to his dad again? It shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

John almost gasped audibly when he heard the words. He heard silence on the other end – perhaps his dad was just as shocked at the revelation as he was. Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks at the prospect that maybe he father was finally beginning to realise how badly John was affected.

“And hey. Son.” John listened – he couldn’t remember the last time his dad had called him that. “Get some help.”

He nodded, and wiped his face again. With a little smile, and the strangest feeling that things would maybe be alright, he replied, “You too, dad. See you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major thanks to [fandomgasm](http://fandomgasm.tumblr.com/) for this ending. It's entirely based on a roleplay we did, and she wrote all of John's dad.

**Author's Note:**

> And, if you care: here's my [Tumblr](http://theandersaur.tumblr.com) for my AO3.


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